Sugar, Grease, and All
by Rinsom Lost
Summary: Or: Why Matthew shouldn't read the news before he's had his morning coffee. Inspired by the recent news about Burger King and Tim Hortons. Rated for language and minor violence.


"You've gone too far." That was the first thing Matthew said, exuding cold fury, after Alfred opened the front door.

Almost immediately, Alfred guessed what his brother was talking about. He himself was holding back an emotional burst of his own, fists clenched, having just read an article on CNN.

"Matt," he said, slowly, "this wasn't m-"

"You have to spoil everything." The sentence came out in a low growl. Matthew stepped through the door smoothly, shoulders hunched and eyes predatory.

"Now ju-" That was when America noticed the hockey stick his brother was holding. He stepped back out of the doorway, glancing off to the right and the left, hoping there'd be something he could use to fend off his hopefully-only-_near_-homicidal brother.

"Matt," he said calmly, pushing down his own anger for the moment, "why don't we go sit down. Like…" he glanced a the hockey stick again, "how about on the porch, or the-"

"Oh I don't know, America," Matthew said, his voice suddenly soft and pleasant again. Alfred swallowed hard as one of Matthew's knuckles cracked. "I thought maybe we could go to the kitchen. That's what you'd really like, eh?" And then Matthew's control was slipping, his volume raising and the words coming out more and more jagged. "We could sit down and have a _nice_. _fresh._ cup of _coffee_!"

Alfred jumped backwards as Matthew swung at him with the stick and then lunged towards him.

"You want coffee?" Matthew shouted, stumbling forward for a moment before straightening up again. "That's great! I'll pour it down your fucking throat!"

"Matt!" Alfred shouted back, as he darted behind the couch, grabbing a cushion and holding it in front of him. "Would you listen for a minute?"

"Shut up and let me hit you!"

Alfred ran around the other side of the couch again, wincing as a lamp crashed to the floor.

"Is this how it's going to be? Your new Manifest Destiny?"

"That doesn't even-" Alfred dropped the cushion and ducked as Matt swung the hockey stick again, reaching out and up as it went by and grapping it. His shoulder jerked painfully as he stopped the hockey stick's arc and pulled it out of Matthew's hands.

"Calm the fuck down will you? You're bei-"

"Don't you dare," Matthew growled, before his voice came out once again in a yell, "Don't you dare dismiss me!" And he leaped, clearing the couch, but tripping over the discarded cushion, landing in a sprawl on the floor. He was still for a moment, then lifted his head. Blood trickled down his face from a gash on his forehead and his eyes glinted with rage.

Alfred tossed the hockey stick down the hallway and grabbed at his brother when he came up swinging. A few punches and elbow jabs connected before Alfred could wrestle Matthew down, a sure reminder for the next few hours of why you don't mess with Canada. Alfred finally managed to grab Matthew around the arms, holding him nearly immobile as he squirmed and writhed in Alfred's grip, growling inhumanly.

"Stop!" Alfred said, and tightened his hold, trying to keep a stopper on his own anger, squeezing just enough to feel his brother pull himself inwards and calm his movements, just a little. "Quit-" Then his brother jerked violently in his arms again. Alfred growled, lowly above his brother's ear, tightening his grip as Matthew gave way beneath him, "Quit blaming every…"

And then Matthew squeaked, breathily.

Painfully.

Alfred froze, then relaxed his hold, not caring whether Matthew was being honest, or manipulative. He shifted his grip and his brother sagged against him.

"Matt?" Alfred asked, growing alarmed at his brother's silence. "Mattie?"

"You're an asshole," Matthew said a second later, panting against Alfred's chest.

Alfred relaxed considerably, keeping his arms wrapped around Matthew, but loosening them into something more like a hug. "Says the person who just went Casey Jones on me."

"You suck."

"Matt…" Alfred started, then after a moment sighed. "God," Alfred let his head fall back against the sole remaining couch cushion. "Why the hell would I want Burger King moved to Canada?"

* * *

><p>"The black eye was already a sure thing Matt." Alfred pulled the bag of peas away from his face, setting it in front of him on the kitchen table. "You didn't have to make sure."<p>

Matthew shrugged, examining the swollen eyelid and cheek. "Sorry."

"You are not," Alfred grumbled.

Matthew sat for a moment, thinking. "Mostly…"

"Mostly are or aren't?" Alfred asked.

"Not sure," Matthew replied, honestly, "Hold still, eh?" And he reached forward again towards his brother's face, wincing only a little as his ribs complained.

"I would if I was certain you weren't trying to pop my eyeball out or something." Alfred jerked away from Matthew's attentions, hissing when the movement had the opposite affect and Matthew's hand brushed firmly against his swollen cheek.

"Oh quit being such a baby," Matthew teased, reaching out with both hands to grip Alfred's face. He ran a cautious thumb over the bridge of his brother's nose. "It's your own fault anyway."

"How is you hauling off and hitting me my fault?"

Matthew leaned back slightly, looking his brother in the eyes with a frown. "Oh Matthew," he began in a mocking nasally tone, "why in the world would I send my precious burger joint to _Canada_."

"That is totally _not _what I said," Alfred said, sitting up straighter in indignation, then- "Ow, ow, ow," his eyes watered as Matthew gripped his face a little tighter.

"Yeah, I know it's not, but that's how it sounded." Matthew finally let his hands drop, finished examining his handiwork. "Besides, you just had to make the whole thing about yourself."

"I did not." Alfred scooted his chair away from Matthew, just in case his brother found another place on his face to poke. "Just figured if you saw how pissed I was you'd figure out it wasn't me."

"Newsflash, dummy, your idea sucked."

"Yeah, well, screw you too…" then Alfred glanced off to the side, in thought, "No… wait… that's not right." He suddenly pulled his attention back to Matthew. "Screw BK."

"What?" Matthew blinked, not at the sentiment, but at the sudden fire in Alfred's eyes.

Alfred pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, planting his hands on the table and leaning forward towards Matthew. "All of this is their fault right? So let's quit taking this out on each other and take it to the source."

"Listening," Matthew said, hesitantly.

"Okay, this is about more than just food right? More than burgers and donuts. This is a matter of national pride."

Matthew leaned forward, nodding.

"These brands are a part of us. Symbols of us. Sugar, grease, and all." Alfred tapped his chest, and paused for a moment. "But now these same companies have turned their backs on us. Abandoned us. They have betrayed us, Mattie. Are we gonna just take that sitting down?"

Matthew, feeling his anger from earlier stirring again, stood up. "Heck no."

"_Hell_ no!" Alfred replied, with a grin. "We'll boycott!" He jabbed his fist into the air, before flinching and grabbing his side.

"And write letters," Matthew added.

"And picket their headquarters!" Alfred said, straightening back up.

"Would you two put a sock in it already?"

They turned their heads as heavy footsteps made their way down the stairs into the kitchen. Arthur appeared a moment later, holding his head. He stared at the two of them for a moment, as if in surprise. "Bloody hell. You two look-" he blinked, rubbing his face, "as bad as I feel."

"Dude. I seriously doubt that," Alfred said, glancing over at Matthew, who was sporting a bloodstain on his t-shirt although the cut head already began to heal at the edges. His own face was going to be sore for the next few days. They certainly wouldn't be winning any pageants, but they didn't look _that_ bad. Arthur, in contrast, looked a little better than death warmed over.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you two stop yelling over a bloody restaurant."

"But-"

"Alfred," Arthur interrupted with a glower, "If I recall correctly your American symbol was owned by a _British _company in the 1990's."

Alfred opened his mouth to speak but Arthur continued on, "And Matthew, surely you haven't forgotten that Tim Horton's was partnered with Wendy's a few years ago, have you?" he looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Besides all that," he sighed, clearly exasperated, "you two share so many other things. I don't see why you can't share a damned fast food company."

"Now," he continued, without waiting for a response, "since we all can clearly see that _this_," he waved his arms at the two of them, "is ridiculous, I'm going back upstairs. If you're done with the paracetamol?" He gestured again, towards the table.

"The pa-" Alfred glanced down at the bottle beside the bag of peas. "Oh, yeah sure." He picked it up, and was getting ready to toss it when Matthew plucked it out of his hand.

Matthew carried it over to Arthur, with a sheepish smile. "Sorry," he said, "about the noise."

Alfred laughed, although at a much lower volume than normal. "Not our fault he drunk himself stupid last night."

Arthur glared, then turned and walked back up the stairs, mumbling lowly to himself, the occasional distinct curse and insult coming through.

Matthew and Alfred watched until he disappeared up the stairs, then waited until they heard the sound of a closing door, before turning to each other.

"Did he seriously not hear you screaming an hour ago?" Alfred asked

"What do you mean?" Matthew said, looking innocent.

"You were chasing me around the living room with a hockey stick, and he just _now _comes down, when it's me doing the talking."

Matthew shrugged and leaned back against the counter.

Alfred sat back down at the table.

Neither one of them said anything for several minutes, neither wanting to acknowledge Arthur's points.

Finally Alfred spoke, after pushing around the bag of peas for a minute. "You know what?" he asked.

"No, but you're gonna tell me," Matthew said, walking over to the fridge.

"I'm hungry."

Matthew looked over at his brother, the cool metal of the refrigerator door under his fingers, and his stomach grumbling quietly.

Alfred continued. "Didn't really do breakfast this morning. A homicidal Canuck showed up at my door. Everywhere's switched over to lunch by now though, so burgers, or something?"

Matthew thought for a moment, then nodded, stepping away from the fridge. "Yeah, that sounds good. Feeling something kinda' sweet though too, you know."

"I could do sweet," Alfred said, then hummed. "And coffee would be good."

They stared at each other for a moment, then, without another word, set off through the house.

"This does _not_ mean I'm letting you make one of those stupid donut burgers," Matthew warned Alfred as he reached for his keys.

Alfred just grinned at him and stepped out the door.


End file.
